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Printed from https://www.Writing.Com/view/2188141
Rated: ASR · Poetry · Death · #2188141
It’s funny how quick things can change.

“I don’t want to die.
I’m afraid.”
I’ve never told him this.
Not until we stood beside my car,
the sun beating down on us.

I watched my best friend cry today.
It was because of me.
His hands shook
and the cigarette seemed out of place;
almost ironic,
given the situation.
I felt his grip tighten
as sobs wracked my body.

Will it be the same,
our mindless conversation,
as we sit in god awful hospital chairs
and laugh about the days we spent
driving recklessly into the horizon?
Probably not.

He will stop holding my hand
as I clamber over some haphazard pile of rocks
and start holding my hair
as I empty what little I can stomach.
Some mixture of chemicals
corrodes my personality
and replaces it with hopelessness,
with defeat.

Please, I don’t want to let him watch me die.

I am afraid of dying, not of death.
It’s the dying that hurts the most.
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Printed from https://www.Writing.Com/view/2188141